Seven Dreams of the City

...one often tried to jump over too wide chasms of thought and then falls in...

Ludwig Wittgenstein

Valley of the Dry Bones

Parched sands of the most desolate desert

God tries any way to remake himself in the image of

his worst enemy. He takes himself apart and all the

words he's used to blaspheme us and tried to set

it all right again. But something isn't right.

His own fragile bones fall down and turn to dust,one, two, then several other creatures rise up out of

his ashes, these try hard to find works for themselves

but can't stay mute for many years. They didn't know themselves

until the day they couldn't pronounce a word for hand.

Was it pride or jealousy or stamina?

Love bequeathed or insanity? To this day we won't know

because just as soon as the bones jump up and shape themselves, they fall apart to form the God

to put him forever to rest in his pot of bones.

Valley of Metaphysical Language

Here at least was an arable field. Could it be rice

or strawberries furrowed into shale? I saw a way

back to what we were once, across the plains whichreeked of affability. This was truly a desertwhich had nothing ore to offer. It seemed so simplein the beginning: to observe carefully what life mighthave been like before it existed. Certain hues in sunset,

beetles scurrying under slabs of granite. The cherry-red of the planet was perforated, and warned of better days

to come if we only took the time to look around. And when I did, I saw that the molten slag was moving at a snail's pace.